


The Affair

by shipcat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Attempted Blackmail, Attempted Seduction, Eventual Political Intrigue, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sasori is an ass, and Rasa LOVES HIS WIFE, eventual poly - Freeform, ish, it's hard to tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipcat/pseuds/shipcat
Summary: As the Third Shinobi War winds down, Sasori makes a desperate attempt to secure funding for his 'art'. Said attempt includes Rasa, whether he likes it or not. (Hint: He absolutely does not.)





	1. When a Sunan Offers Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of Sasori and Rasa's friendship and wanted to write a scenario where Sasori sneaks into his office and pencils in appointments for lunches. Then my friend gave me the prompt, "It's better to expect disappointment," and well. It spun out of control, in a good way.

Sasori of the Red Sand is objectively pretty.

This Rasa knows, and can acknowledge. Objectively, of course.

Pretty when he shows up at Rasa’s office, announcing he has an appointment with the treasurer. Pretty when the secretary looks down at the schedule, smirking at her stammered shock. Apologies, and Rasa is called out of his office for a lunch-date scheduled for two. Pretty when Sasori informs Rasa they need to discuss the funding for the puppet corps, teeth lighting on his lips.

Rasa hasn’t eaten yet. This is a fact. This, and the knowledge that he has been putting this conversation off for the better part of three weeks now, not wanting to inform the vicious scorpion that the Third has cut the war department’s budget in two. That, and the fact that an impatient Sasori is just as dangerous as the Leaf hordes.

This is why he shrugs, and accepts the lunch date (despite not remembering scheduling it at all). Not because Sasori is objectively pretty, but because Rasa is hungry, professional, and Sasori is clearly annoyed with his reluctance. Brow twitching. Oddly quiet.

“It’s better to expect disappointment,” Rasa tells him. “Sunans are complaining about high taxes, which are superfluous during peace. The Kazekage is a man of the people. You know how it goes.” He flags down a waiter for drinks, and waits for the knife in his back.

“That’s fine.” Sasori replies. Rasa almost chokes on air.

Instead he coughs into his hand, hiding his surprise. “Fine? You. Sasori. _You’re_ fine with this.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sasori dryly says, sitting back on his cushion. “No. Lord Third is a respectable man, who knows what he’s doing. Even if, at this time, his decisions negatively impact me, I trust him to govern well. Besides, my current sacrifices show great loyalty, and will benefit me in the long run. You know how it goes,” he waves carelessly, reaching for a pot of tea.

A skeptical Rasa watches for a poisonous sleight of hand.

Sasori asks for the specials instead.

“I want a full platter of kabsah brought out, skewered—meat? Lamb, of course. I am not a peasant. As for sides, hmm. Do you still have that beef stew from last summer? No, no—yes. I’ll take that, spicy, to be eaten with naan, fūl, plus raita for our dear treasurer.”

Rasa raises an eyebrow. “That sounds acceptable,” he tells the waiter, ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head. A buffet of foods in what _should_ be a simple lunch affair.

But nothing is ever simple with Sasori, is it?

“We don’t like to wait.” Sasori adds, waiter scribbling down their order. “So make it quick—or else.”

Of course he would threaten the help. Rasa sighs deeply, crossing his legs over his own seat - a deep crimson pillow, hewn with soft velvet roses. On second thought, he crosses his arms as well, one hand disappearing inside his robe to fuss at a canister of gold dust. Sasori was a trickster, certainly, but the straightforward kind. If anything, he should be expecting a dagger to the chest, not sly hands directed at pouring tea into tall glass cups.

“Tea?” Sasori offers, after he has already poured a second.

“Yours,” Rasa firmly says, Sasori tilting his head in amusement.

“Very well.”

Some time ago before Suna was Suna, the exchange of food and drink had become common among poison makers and shinobi alike. It acknowledged the skill of the apothecarist, while preserving the life of their guests, and so the odd practice had become somewhat of a popular compliment. Only a madman would poison his own food, it was thought.

Clearly Sunan traditionalists had not met Sasori.

The puppeteer presses a finger to his cup, slides it over. His nails are painted with henna, Rasa notices. A floral design flows onto his wrist, swirling into mandalas and old Sunan script, withdrawn into his lap before the treasurer can read them.

Moments pass. Sasori stares, corners of his mouth curling upward. “You know,” he starts. “There are those who consider offering tea to be a proposition of sorts.”

“A proposition,” Rasa incredulously repeats.

“Yes.” He’s like a damn cat, swishing its tail before pouncing on a mouse. “For favors which are—more than friendly.”

Rasa’s stomach drops out from under him. “You mean a loan,” he tries, hoping against all hopes that Sasori is joking.

“I mean sex,” Sasori bluntly states, like it's obvious.

Rasa covers his face with his hand and _sighs_.

“Why? No. No, I don’t want to know. Damn it—Sasori, I’m _married_ ,” he pauses for Sasori’s response; there is none. “To Karura. I have two kids, a steady job—why would I want to have an affair? With someone like _you_ , no less.” The insult slips out before he knows it. Sasori frowns, and Rasa holds his breath.

It is so silent a pin could drop. Several waiters scurry by, assuring the treasurer and his ‘guest’ that their food would be ready soon, ignored by the two men engaged in a staring contest.

Then Sasori’s facade breaks. Amused, he rests his chin on his palm, henna’d fingers tapping at his face. “Because I’m blackmailing you,” the puppeteer coolly replies.

“You’re— _what_.”

“You’ve gone deaf.” Sasori clicks his tongue in pity. “Blackmail. Me. You. Engaged in various illegal activities which may or may not involve embezzlement, fraud, and allocating public funds to certain purveyors of fine arts. Specifically, time-honored art of puppetry, and myself in particular. Otherwise, I will tell your happily married wife and two children that we are having an affair.” And he means it, too. It is not the most ridiculous thing that Sasori has ever done. Nor the most illicit.

His pulse throbs in his ears. Rasa can feel his blood pressure rising, hear the lectures from his doctor.

Screw caution. He’d gladly take a dagger to the back right about now.

“Sasori, I am _not_ having sex with you,” Rasa firmly says, loud enough to turn heads.

“Karura doesn’t know that."

“It isn’t true.”

“I have proof.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” The objectively pretty man reaches into his pocket, tossing Rasa a scroll. A wash of gold snatches it from the air.

“You can look, if you want,” Sasori demurs, eyes half-mast. Rasa only shakes his head and cracks open the seal—an exact replica of what he uses for the Treasury.

His heart stops.

It is, objectively, subjectively, definitely his own handwriting that leers up at him. Sharp, short, efficient script greets Sasori (“My scorpion, my ruby,”), exchanging pleasantries and asking for his well-being. Disturbingly accurate, it immediately launches into the droll details of Rasa’s day, from the very true account of how he thought one of the Elders had died in the middle of a speech; to his lunch-meeting with the Third—always unnecessarily long—as the man chattered on and on about the story of the not-dead Elder who startled awake right before embalmers pulled his brain from his nose; to the even more unnecessary report which Rasa had to write on the matter, all without disclosing his own opinion that the Elder would be better off entombed.

As the rant peters off, the mood softens. Rasa watches in horror as it morphs, mimicking letters sent to Karura—warm, longing for the comfort in her arms. But her curves are replaced by angles; her gold with Sasori’s red; her sapphire eyes with bronze date fruits, plucked from bulging hives and crushed to sweetness.

Ink swells. Letters slant. The restaurant disappears; Sasori is on their bed, cheeks flushed and composure near-broken. Hands, raking down the sides of his body, thumbs rubbing circles into scars and fluttering kisses down his neck. How much he has missed Sasori, how much Sasori has missed him, the redhead pulling him down and demanding that he _hurry_. Then the writing hastens, luridly describing what he would like to do to the man sitting across him—no.

No, no, _no_.

Inhaling through his nose, a red-faced Rasa hastily stuffs the scroll into his robes.

He’ll dispose of it later. After he’s dealt with this ingrate.

“There’s more where that came from.” Sasori pipes up. A finger suggestively circles the rim of his teacup, and Rasa’s jaw goes taut.

“A lesser man would kill you for the insult.”

Sasori smirks again. “It’s better to expect disappointment,” he mocks, blinking when Rasa stands up. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” the treasurer bites, “to tell my wife all about your plan.”

“Ah.” Disappointing. “Should I reschedule our discussion for another time?”

 _Die,_ Rasa thinks, towering over Sasori. “Don’t talk to me, or my family, ever again.”

He scoffs. “You’re being hasty—”

But it’s too late. Rasa is already stalking out of the restaurant, pushing by confused waiters with piles of food, placed before a wide-eyed Sasori. Now it’s his turn to sigh.

“Lord Third called him on urgent business,” he lies, again. “He said to put it on his tab.”

The waiters take his word for it, placing platters before him. Baskets of bread rest next to bowls of golden olive oil, swirling with herbs; steamed bean paste sprinkled with tomatoes and cilantro; then, plates upon plates of meat are set before Rasa’s empty seat.

Snatching up a kebob, Sasori spitefully tears into it. He scowls, chewing.

Perhaps if Sasori were a bit more sympathetic, he wouldn’t have gone through with this plan. Perhaps if he were more kind, he would be able to make genuine, human connections. Perhaps if he were more friendly, he would have allies.

But the Scorpion of the Red Sand is not sympathetic, or kind, or friendly, and so he’s left to eat his lunch, alone.

Always, always alone.


	2. When a Sunan Confesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks to the past, showing how the treasurer and his wife know the master puppeteer. Also: Rasa admits something to Karura, and she takes it... oddly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely [Escape_Through_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escape_through_words/profile), who wrote a hilarious Rasa fic for me, _[Denied.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912730/chapters/44896864)_ Please check it out if you get a chance! 
> 
> _AN: wyrm. Noun. (plural wyrms) (poetic) dragon, particularly one without legs or wings. (poetic) snake, particularly a large one._

The desert is often called a sea of sand. Within its arduous shores, dunes rise, crest, and fall; light glints off the surface, near blinding in its resplendence, but for clouds of dust rising up around the city. Black, scrabbly vegetation sways in the wind currents, scrabbly brambles raised to greet the oncoming gloom.

On the village outskirts, wyrms dip and dive out of the golden surface, only to be snapped up by hawks. Black blood drip on rippling sand, as birds glide back to their masters, lazily flapping to gain altitude.

Sea or not, it isn’t often that the desert rippled. In fact, it had happened only once prior, on a very rare occasion when the Third Kazekage set down his pen, geniality slipping into a frown.

This was shortly before the caravans of the eastern quarter were razed to the ground.

Now, the sand churns and bubbles, burning past mud clay buildings. A rush of dark robes scurry for shelter, and soon Suna is devoid of all but two men—one rushing through the streets, toward his house, for his wife—the other watching him from above the city center, hawk on his raised arm. Golden eyes glint, before flicking down to the wyrm squirming under sharp talons.

In one fell swoop its neck is broken. Picking up his hat, the Third Kazekage whispers praises to his hawk, paying no mind to the blue-white robes whipping about him. He is calm. He is serene, a pillar in the face of an oncoming storm—

—whatever it may be.

 

***

Perhaps if Sasori had simply requested art funds, Rasa would have been more amenable to shifting the budget around and looking the other way. Perhaps if he had decided to blackmail him on another matter, Rasa would have chuckled and asked where Sasori he had stolen a sense of humor.

Surely he didn’t have it in the past. At least, not that Rasa could recall. While the war council convened, the leader of the puppet corps always sat off to the side, scowling into his cups while the Elders bickered with their hands, occasionally breaking off to make a pointed dig at each other; even after, when the military officials for a more private consultation after, Sasori had remained removed, staring stolidly as the Kazekage explained the situation, only offering words when his opinion was asked for. 

His carefully sculpted expression did not crack. Not when Lord Third informed him that the puppet corps would be responsible for pushing back vicious Kiri lines. Not when other consultants advised him of the enemy’s swordsmanship, suggesting that they were compensating for something. Not when the then-seventeen year old blinked, nodded, and returned to his blueprints. In hindsight, it was clear he did not know a joke from a serious piece of advice.

Swirling a cup of tea, Sasori scribbled down notes, pale scar twitching on his forearm. Rasa returned to his own work, quietly impressed. The Kazekage watched on, then left his most trusted to it. 

Their mood shifted. Dark bottles were poured into gold-leafed glasses. Sasori remained blank, refusing a drink even as Rasa irritably sipped at his own. What a waste of resources, he remembers thinking, making small talk with Hiruko. “Yes, Karura is fine. Little Temari is? … well, very  _ loud_. Except when Karura holds her—”

Glancing up, then, to catch a scorpion jerking his eyes away. His blue nails tapped against the table. That scar pulsed, wrapped around his wrist like talons.

Unnerved, Rasa turned back to Hiruko. “When Karura holds her, Temari’s face—it softens. Then her voice. And she smiles, with her gums,” he continued, ranting on and on until his chest clenched, and he became distinctly aware of those eyes on him again.

Rasa coughed. “At any rate, I am not concerned. Her teeth should be coming in soon enough.” Karura had said so, cooing at their pink-mouthed, giggling daughter. That was all Rasa needed to hear. All he ever needed to hear.

Diverting his attention back to work, Sasori reached for a piece of charcoal. Within moments, he was scribbling over the blueprints, any traces of fascination gone.

It was all he needed to hear, too.

 

***

As the Kazekage leaves the rooftop, a bang! echoes through the Ibatamah household, startling Karura out of her reverie. The icy water of the sink, shines and ripples beneath her, vegetables bobbing like ships. She runs a rag over the counter, before pulling a meat cleaver off of the wall.

It’s not time for Rasa to be home. 

Stomps. Pink and swollen fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. Karura pushes around a doorway, thinking quickly of how she’s never seen the ocean—how she’s never even seen a river—but how she’d rather die than let her family get hurt—

Karura meets the intruder’s eyes, then laughs in relief. The cleaver finds its way to a bookshelf, her hennaed hand to Rasa’s face. 

“Love.” She pulls down his veil, eyes immediately darting to his scowl.

“Dear,” he answers, lips pursed thin.

No kisses then. At least not now.

But Karura smiles regardless, peeling away his cowl, oblivious to the debate going on in her husband’s head.

How does a man go about telling his wife that he’s having an affair? Even worse—how does a man go about telling his wife that another man is fabricating an affair in an over elaborate blackmailing scheme? This isn’t something they teach you in the camps, Rasa thinks cynically, tugging off his coat and throwing it on the rack. It isn’t something they teach at all. Ever. Anywhere.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Karura furrows her brows.

“Is, ah, um—what’s wrong?” she asks, genuinely concerned.

And just like that, Rasa slumps his shoulders, anger rushing out of him. A bone deep exhaustion settles in its place. Karura sets a tentative hand on his back, leading him to the parlor.

“One of my subordinates.” He waves his hand tiredly. “Did something inappropriate.”

“Oh.” Karura blinks. “Which one?” 

“No, no.” Rasa corrects himself. “Not quite a subordinate—closer than that. Ah—” 

“A friend?”

“A comrade. We fought together.”

“So basically a friend.”

“... basically.”

“And what did your subordinate-comrade-friend do?”

“He,” Rasa swallows. The moment of truth. “Sasori tried to—”

“Oh!” She lit up. “Sasori.”

His stomach drops. “You know him?” 

To say Karura knew Sasori would put it lightly. She had first heard of the man when he was just a boy, too short to be viewed over the crowd, winning small acclaims for his exploits in the Second Shinobi War. She had first seen him in their teens, looking up at the pretty red-haired androgyne across the way and questioning her sexuality. After deciding that girls were fun to kiss, too, she had learned that Sasori was not only male and a good kisser but also a war hero, as his service in the Third Shinobi war would undoubtedly prove.

Later, after marriage, their paths continued to cross - the master puppeteer working with her brother in prosthetics, dawdling in his free time at the market where Karura liked to shop. 

In the hustle and bustle of the bazaar, he was a quiet relief, hidden between curtains of lace and scarves for sale. She dipped under a rug, feeling oddly giddy as she snuck past the wares, searching for flashes of red. A cold spot.  _ Sasori _ . 

He had the decency to act surprised when Karura tapped on his shoulder, shouting, Boo! And after that small heart attack, she had invited him to dinner. Insisted when he said no, of course. Rasa would not be there—busy wrapping up the war effort, as usual—but Yasha was coming, and, well. 

They could use the company.

After being married so long, Karura assumes that Rasa already knows this. She decides to give him the short end of the story, erring on the side of brevity.

“Yes. I bumped into him in the market one day and invited him over.” She cups her husband’s face, smoothing away a wrinkle. The neat, tight little lines of henna on her hand go unnoticed.

“He comes over,” he dumbly repeats. “To our house.  _ Our  _ house. Where we—you and I, and our children—live in. That one.”

“Yes!” Karura laughs, “Where else would we live? In your closet at work?” She’s half-sure that’s where he sleeps. Maybe Sasori does too.

“Our home,” Rasa says incredulously, before blurting, “He wants to have an affair. With me.” He chokes on the sheer ridiculousness of it.

This is, no doubt, not the tale that you or I know, but it is all he can spit out before Karura interrupts him with an, “Oh, okay! Will he be coming for dinner then?

“...okay?”

“Oh, no.” Karura steps away, biting her lip. “I’ve only prepared enough for the family. Oh, I’ll have to make more. This will not do.” Pacing, she begins to list, “Rice? Plenty of that, no need to worry. But the meat! The meat! Not nearly enough, and we can’t go on without that—I’ll have to get more from the butcher, then. Vegetables? Ah, we have enough rationed… right? Double check this. Oh, what does Sasori like to eat...spice, yes? He has good taste, very high class. Saffron? No, too expensive. Best to use turmeric instead—oh, but it’s for such a rare occasion, I think—yes, yes, I think we can spring for it.”

“Karura,” Rasa hesitates. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes!” She beams. “Sasori is coming over for dinner—and there’s still time to prepare, thank those above—no wonder you rushed home to tell me!” and then she goes on and on and on, counting each ingredient on her fingers.

Giving one last, harrowing sigh, Rasa crashes down onto a couch, staring blankly into space. He knows better than to get in the way of a hostess on a mission. But whether Karura heard him or not?  _ That  _ he doesn’t know.

At this point, he isn’t sure he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! If you like, please leave a kudos or a comment below.
> 
> Also! Agree or disagree: 2019 is the year when we finally admit that Rasa is more than just a bad guy. And 2020. And 2021...
> 
> My [Tumblr](thatshipcat.tumblr.com).
> 
> My [PillowFort](pillowfort.io/thatshipcat).

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE Rasa, and I'd love to hear what you think about my characterization of him. Leave a kudos/comment if you can?
> 
> My [Tumblr](thatshipcat.tumblr.com).
> 
> My [PillowFort](pillowfort.io/thatshipcat).


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